


Playing the Long Game

by harlequin87



Category: Rugby Union RPF
Genre: 3+1, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:02:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22032235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harlequin87/pseuds/harlequin87
Summary: Or, three subtle signs of commitment and one obvious one.
Relationships: Sam Warburton/George North
Comments: 9
Kudos: 13





	Playing the Long Game

**Author's Note:**

> AO3 user harlequin87, back again with another 3+1? It’s more likely than you’d think!

  1. [Godfather](https://twitter.com/samwarburton_/status/431173572128964609), 2014



“You want me to be your dog’s godfather?” George said, blinking in confusion.  
Sam turned off his phone, blackness taking the place of the photo of the tiny puppy, and shrugged. “I thought it would be a cool thing to do,” he said, staring at the floor. “Like, it’s probably a bit soon for us to be fully parenting him together, but I want you to have a share in him, as much as you’re willing.”

George shuffled closer to his boyfriend on the bed, fully aware that the other man’s house in Cardiff at New Year was not the place to get into a fight about a dog. “I’d love to, Sammy.” He bumped their shoulders together. “What are you thinking of naming your – our child, anyway?”  
Linking their fingers together with a laugh, Sam said, “Ledley. You know, to carry on the Tottenham theme.”

George groaned. “The things I do for love – Ledley, Jesus. The next dog we get is not having a stupid football name.” He turned to look at Sam when he didn’t respond with the expected indignation, squeezing his hand. “You okay, babe? I didn’t mean to insult the family tradition.”

“It’s not that,” Sam said hoarsely, looking back at him with wide eyes. “Just – love? Really?”  
“Uh, yeah?” George replied, amusement draining away. “I’m sorry if it’s a bit soon, or you don’t feel the same way-”  
“Oh, shut up,” Sam said, silencing his boyfriend with a kiss. “I’m not angry or anything. You don’t have to apologise for your feelings.”

He cupped George’s face in his hands and held eye contact. “I love you too, okay?” he said fiercely. “Don’t ever doubt that. I was just surprised – you’re so young, you have so many other options…”  
It was George’s turn to scoff. “Babe. I’m not settling for anything here. Sure, you’re a few years older than me, but you’re also one of the best – and hottest – people I know, alright? I’m in this for the long run.” He brought their foreheads together, hands resting on the back of Sam’s neck. “And if that means being godfather to a dog called Ledley, then that’s fine by me.”

Sam closed his eyes, waiting for his breaths to even out before speaking again. “I’m picking him up at the end of the month,” he said slowly, “and Ben’s going to be looking after him during the Six Nations. If you’re still coming down here for a few days before training camp, then we can have the ceremony then.”  
George pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “Of course, Sammy. I can’t wait to meet him.”

Ledley was somehow even smaller than George had been expecting. Obviously he was only a few months old, but seeing him nestled in the crook of one of Sam’s arms provoked all kinds of mushy and gooey thoughts he would never say out loud. “So cute,” he said softly, rubbing the puppy’s head.

“He is, isn’t he?” Sam cooed, cuddling Ledley into his chest. “Not as cute as you, though,” he continued, pressing a kiss to his boyfriend’s cheek.  
George squirmed, the happy feelings in his stomach threatening to overwhelm him. “Are we doing this baptism thing, then? I brought a present for Ledley too, to make it official.”  
“Sure.” Sam eased himself off the sofa, carefully cradling the sleeping puppy in his arms.

“I’ll get the water,” George said, trying to distract himself from the adorable sight of his boyfriend and their tiny dog. He grabbed a bowl out of the cupboard – a mug was too informal, he decided – and filled it with lukewarm water.  
“I suppose I’d better take my jumper off in case it gets wet,” Sam grumbled. He set down Ledley with a firm ‘stay’ and stripped off his hoodie, throwing it over a chair before scooping up the dog again.

George’s mouth went dry. Before the contrast between Sam and Ledley had been cute, but now it emphasised the sheer bulk of his boyfriend’s shoulders and arms. “Here’s the water, babe,” he said, handing it over and picking up the dog toy he’d brought.  
“Thanks,” Sam murmured, shifting Ledley until they were both comfortable.

“Alright,” George said, “you’re master of ceremonies. Take it away.”  
“Shouldn’t I be the vicar? Or priest? It’s a baptism, after all.”  
George pulled a face. “Sammy, unless you’re secretly a religious official, I don’t think it really matters. People don’t actually baptise dogs, so you don’t need a vicar or whoever to do it.”  
Sam shrugged. “If you say so, mate.”

He cleared his throat self-importantly. “We are gathered here today to witness the baptism of Ledley Warburton, aged fourteen weeks. The presiding official is Sam Warburton, and the witness is George North.” George had to hold in a snort. “Um – what do I say now?” Sam hissed. “I haven’t been to one of these things in years.”  
George couldn’t stop himself from laughing. “I can look it up if you want?”  
“No, it’s fine,” Sam said, suppressing his own smile. “I’ll make it up – more heartfelt that way.” George nodded solemnly in agreement as Sam rambled through the rest of the ‘baptism’.

“I hereby pronounce you Ledley Warburton,” Sam said with a flourish, tipping some of the water onto the unsuspecting dog’s head.  
George applauded with a grin. “Nice one, buddy.”  
“Here you go,” Sam said, handing over the puppy. “Do your godfatherly duties, and give my arms a rest.”

George kissed Sam, then Ledley. “Hello, little one,” he whispered. “I’m your godfather for real, now. Or your dog father.” He looked up at Sam’s snigger. “Oi, you. Just because you’re the principal parent, or whatever it’s called, doesn’t mean you get to laugh at my title.”  
Sam gathered them both into a tight hug. “Sorry, love. Maybe we can both be dads for our next dog.”

And if George teared up at that, he could blame it on a sudden and violent allergy to dog hair.

  1. Bank account, 2017



Sam grabbed at George’s hand and squeezed it tightly as they walked into the bank advisor’s office. George looked back at him with a bright smile, eyes shining. They’d talked about it for a while, amalgamating their bank accounts, but the worry about someone picking up on it and spreading the news was always too great.

But over the past few months, Sam had been forced to admit that a return to rugby was looking more and more unlikely. He’d rested completely for two months over the summer, and then undergone neck surgery. While that issue now seemed to be sorted, the old knee injury was flaring up again. He didn’t know if he wanted to go through all the pain and stress of rehab again, for a few more years and potentially a lot more pain in the long term. He had George’s future to consider now, as well as his own.

With retirement looming ever closer on the horizon for Sam, he realised that being outed to either of their clubs didn’t really matter to him anymore. It wasn’t like he would be able to play for much longer, so a contract termination wouldn’t be an issue. George would be fine if anything like that happened, anyway – no club could turn down George North, even if he was discovered to be gay. So, a few weeks ago, Sam had tentatively broached the subject to a beaming George, and that led them to where they were now.

“Will both names be on the account?” the clerk asked, eyes focused on her computer screen.  
George knocked their knees together fondly under the table. “Yes,” he said proudly.  
“Preferred order?”  
“Alphabetical,” Sam replied firmly. There had been more than a few heated conversations on that particular topic, but he’d won George over to his side with the argument that they would hopefully be able to hyphenate soon, so the name order didn’t actually matter.

“I’ve just got to print these forms off, and then you can sign them and I will send them for approval,” the clerk said, leaving the room.  
George immediately pulled Sam into a kiss. “I’ve never been this excited by bureaucracy before,” he said with a wide grin.  
Sam kissed him back. “Beats contract negotiations any day, that’s for sure.”

By the time the clerk re-entered the room, both men were sat in their seats as before, although the chairs did seem to be about a metre closer together. She smiled privately to herself. It was always the case with couples – the confirmation of their relationship, whatever stage it might be at, appeared to have an almost giddying effect on both partners.

“If you can sign here, here, and here for me, please,” she said, pointing out the required spaces on the form. They were definitely holding hands under the table. “Okay, that should be it,” she said, once they’d finished. “Confirmation will be sent to you within seven working days. Have a good day, gentlemen.”

“I love you, Sammy,” George murmured as they left the room. “So much.”  
Sam took George’s hand, tracing his thumb over his partner’s skin. “I love you too, G. Can’t wait to sign the next piece of paper together.”

  1. Tattoo, 2019



It was Leigh Halfpenny who noticed the tattoo first, because of course it was. Nobody had noticed the ink, tucked away high on George’s thigh, for the first three days of the Switzerland training camp in July, so he could be excused for thinking that he would get away with it.

But then – in the locker room of all places – Leigh saw the tiny interlinked ‘GS’ and yelled, “What the _fuck_ is that? You got a Grand Slam tattoo?” The incredulity of his squawk cut through the low murmur of the rest of the squad. Silence descended.

George stood there sheepishly, clad only in Sam’s loose-fitting boxers. They’d slipped down his hip to expose the small tattoo, and there was nothing he could do but play along. Was this the time to come clean about his secret marriage to the former captain of the squad? Not really, no. He could only thank God that his and Sam’s names had the same initials as ‘Grand Slam’ and that Leigh’s mind had gone there first, otherwise he would have been left scrambling to come up with a convincing lie.

Thankfully, Alun Wyn took the initiative and stood up, probably realising that thirty men staring in silence at a nearly naked teammate constituted something close to hazing. “Lads,” he said wearily, “George has every right to get a tattoo. At least it’s subtle. And, hey – it counts as team spirit?” The captain sat down again and conversation resumed, albeit accompanied by a side of suspicious glances.

George breathed a sigh of relief. He’d always been lucky with his captains standing up for him. He couldn’t say the same for his teammates, though, as Leigh sidled up to him. “Sorry to yell,” he muttered, “but, like, really? Was it actually that exciting for you? Have you got other ones we don’t know about?”

George hurriedly tugged up the boxers and pulled on a shirt to stop Leigh staring. “It was more about the – the meaning of the Grand Slam, y’know? After so many concussions and injuries, it was good to just get out there and win something for once.”  
Leigh nodded consideringly. “Okay, that’s fair. I didn’t go as far as a tattoo when we won the Champions’ Cup, but I did propose to Jess.” He looked hard at George. “You didn’t get married without telling us, did you?” Leigh tapped the tattoo. “Is she called something starting with an S? Because that’d be really sweet.”

George fought to keep his face straight. “I admire the detective work, mate, but no. It’s literally just for the Grand Slam, like you said. Don’t overanalyse these things.” Aiming for casual and missing by a mile, he stuffed the rest of his kit into its bag. “See you at lunch!” he called over his shoulder and bolted for the door.

Safely locked in the bathroom of his hotel room (Nicky could be back any minute), he pulled out his phone to call Sam. There was no reply, so he quickly sent a text before going back out and lying on his bed to wait for a reply.

_Hey Sammy – boys saw the tattoo today, Leigh nearly figured it out but I think I managed to head him off. Love you xxx_

His phone pinged within five minutes.

_Sounds close! Good job you, must have been tough_

_In a meeting so can’t call for an hour, talk later? xxx_

_Ofc xxx_

_Missing you xxx_

_Ten days!_

_Too long >:(_

George ran his fingers over the tattoo which had caused all the trouble. He didn’t want to rock the boat with the news so soon before the World Cup – he could imagine the headlines if the team did anything short of win the whole thing – but he was tired of waiting. It was July. He would be back with Ospreys by mid-November, whatever happened. Then it would be 2020 in a blink of an eye.

He pressed down on the tiny letters, a sudden ache in his chest for Sam – _his husband_ – to be next to him. Even though the other players didn’t have their partners with them, it was an incomparable situation. At least they could talk about their significant others and complain about their absence.

The tracing patterns resumed. The symbolism of coming out in the first game of the new decade appealed to him (think of the ten-year challenge, a small voice murmured in the back of his head), but he didn’t think the team would appreciate it. He’d talk to Sam about it, but the end of the season didn’t seem to be an awful option. It would give him time to win over his teammates and management, as well as coming to terms with it himself.

He looked at the blank screen of his phone with a sigh. He was so ready to end the secrecy – but he would take another twenty years in the closet to have Sam by his side in that moment.

+1. Name, 2020

Sam picked up the matchday programme, quickly flicking through to find the team sheet at the back. A grin spread across his face when he saw the name next to the 11 shirt: _George Warburton-North_. Resisting the urge to hug the programme to his chest with overflowing joy, he took his seat at the back of the Liberty Stadium’s west stand. The fizzing adrenaline shooting through his body made it as if he was one taking to the pitch in ten minutes, not his husband.

They’d agreed, deep in the dark weeks after Sam’s retirement announcement, that George could make the call on when they would come out officially. Sam wasn’t playing anymore; the decision didn’t affect him. It was far more dangerous to come out as an active rugby player than as a pundit standing pitchside.

So when George had first floated the idea of making their new legal names public – on his birthday of all days: how was Sam supposed to say no? – in the final home game of the season, Sam was immediately supportive. The season had been tough on both of them, with the extended separation and ultimate disappointment of the World Cup, the dismal performance of Ospreys in virtually every way, and then George’s injuries on top of that. Any way of salvaging some positives from the 2019/20 season was a net gain, in Sam’s eyes.

He tracked George around the pitch as the younger man went through his warmups. Maybe he was imagining it, but he seemed lighter than before. It could have been the impending release from the purgatory of Ospreys’ recent form, or the knowledge that, as more and more people read the programme or saw the squad announcement tweeted out that morning, slowly the air of secrecy around their relationship was dissolving.

Sam had chosen a seat right at the back of the lower stand, so as to be close to the action but relatively hidden. He wanted to watch his husband play instead of spending eighty minutes taking selfies and signing autographs. The seats filled up around him, and he smiled politely at the dawning recognition on the faces of the other fans as they shuffled past to their places. There was still a twinge of unease in his stomach as they drew nearer to kick-off. The crowd of old ex-rugby players might not be the most accepting, and even though he knew he could hold his own in a fight (if it really came down to it), he didn’t want to witness the disgust and rejection in real time.

“Your Ospreys team for today!” The words blared over the tannoy system, and Sam forced his knee to stop bouncing. There was always a price to pay for freedom.

As the announcer climbed through the numbers, he closed his eyes, biting down hard on his lip. It would only take a few seconds, then maybe a couple of minutes for the realisation to filter through.

“And starting at eleven – George Warburton-North!”

Sam hissed as the taste of blood filled his mouth. Was there a growing murmur in the stadium, or was that the rushing noise in his ears? It was possible that people wouldn’t figure it out, anyway. Marriage to an ex-teammate wasn’t the obvious conclusion for anyone to leap to, he reassured himself.

There was a tap on his arm, and his eyes jerked open. “Yes?” he said, trying to keep his cool.  
“Oh, I just wanted to say – congratulations!” The man sat next to him – looked to be in his sixties, the usual for a rugby fan in these parts, Sam noticed in his panic – extended a hand.  
Sam took it, bewildered. “For what?” he asked, scarcely daring to believe.

The man tipped his head towards the big screen. Sam followed his gaze, eyes widening as he processed the image. It was a black and white photo from their wedding: Sam was stood behind George with his arms wrapped tightly around him, while George’s head was tipped back against his shoulder. _Congratulations George and Sam!_ was emblazoned across the bottom of the screen, and some bright spark in the PR department had decided to add some hearts, just in case anybody really hadn’t got the message.

“Wow,” he said softly. Clearly George had decided to take the opportunity to come out and show off while he was at it, without consulting Sam. Fair play to him, he conceded – and it was one of his favourite photos of them, so he couldn’t complain.  
“Yeah, so congratulations,” the man said. “That’s really brave of you two.”  
Sam squirmed. “I mean, it wasn’t that…”  
The man cut him off. “Welcome to the Ospreys family,” he said firmly. “And I hope that husband of yours plays well today – God knows this team needs it at the moment.”

Sam thanked the man and turned his attention back to the pitch, still in a daze. It was done. They were out, with no room for uncertainty. He could go and sit with the other players’ partners now if he wanted. He could kiss George after the match without finding a deserted corridor first. He could hold his husband’s hand in public.

Afterwards, Sam would blame the fact that he welled up on George’s beauty of an intercept try in the second minute. But really, it was relief. Relief for the simple acceptance of the man sat next to him, relief for the chorus of boos that hadn’t rung out around the ground, and relief that George was playing like a man possessed – or, more accurately, a man liberated.

Seven years of hiding would do that to you, Sam reflected. But then they always knew that they were playing the long game.

**Author's Note:**

> Just over two weeks until the Six Nations start - it’s come around so fast...
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading this and that you have a good day :)


End file.
